


Evergreen

by dansunedisco



Series: Evergreen [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Healing, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Post-Canon, Rebuilding, Sansa Stark is Queen in the North
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-12
Updated: 2020-02-12
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:54:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22673629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dansunedisco/pseuds/dansunedisco
Summary: Winter comes to an end, and spring promises to usher in enemies both old and new.With Jon Snow in a self-imposed exile, news reaches Winterfell that will again bring him into the orbit of the Queen in the North.-He’s had so many names, now. Jon Snow. Bastard. Crow. Lord Commander. King in the North. The Next Kneeler King. Aegon Targaryen. Betrayer. Queenslayer. The Wolf Who Once Was.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Series: Evergreen [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1628935
Comments: 8
Kudos: 43





	Evergreen

He’s had so many names, now. Jon Snow. Bastard. Crow. Lord Commander. King in the North. The Next Kneeler King. Aegon Targaryen. Betrayer. Queenslayer. The Wolf Who Once Was. The list was long, and earned. Even so, he wanted no titles. He knew better than to covet, now.

As a young boy, a green boy, a foolish boy, he’d dreamed of Winterfell. Then he’d dreamed of the Wall, standing side-by-side with his oath brothers. He’d killed the boy and became a man, but all men had their follies and Jon discovered his, too. He’d chased honor, then duty, and then he’d chased love. It’d got him nothing but a knife in the heart, and a sharper blade in his own hand to wield.

Now, all he wanted was peace. Silence as still as the snow. Ghost by his side; a smoking fire that kept him warm, and a small hut in the woods where no one could hurt him. Better yet, where he could not hurt anyone in turn.

But the world was cruel, and it would never let him forget what he hadn’t known ‘til too late: His life had never been his own. No matter where he would abscond himself, the truth followed and burdened, and it would ferret him out of his seclusion, eventually. This he knew.

When the summons came, parchment wrapped in twine and sealed with golden-colored wax, he slipped it off the clawed foot of the raven who held it forward impatiently. Black wings flew to the makeshift rookery that was a cageless perch that he’d hammered into the frozen ground. It pecked at the seeds scattered across the patchy snow with a throaty, angry _caw_.

He paid the bird no further mind. He cracked the seal and unrolled the paper, ice-cold dread creeping up his spine even as he knew, deep in his bones, what lay in the ink. Every few turns of the moon, they came like clockwork. Tempting promises and tentative forgiveness. But what they didn’t understand was that he cared not for their amnesty. If he could not absolve himself of his own crimes, then why would he care for their absolution?

He drew in a breath, and exhaled.

* * *

“You mean to pardon him.”

Her skirts swirled around her legs. Sometimes she wished she’d adopted Arya’s style of dress, because it would make leaving Samwell Tarly behind on the ramparts very much easier to do, but she hadn’t, and therefore escape would have been too obvious-- and rude. “Of course. He’s in the north, and I _am_ our queen. Therefore he is my subject, and I am well within my rights to do with him as I please.”

“Your Grace--”

Her fingers tightened. Her leather gloves creaked in protest. “He spent six moons in the dungeons of the Red Keep, and he’s spent another gods knows how long exiled beyond the Wall.” _Arya left and Bran isn’t Bran._ He was alone, and so was she. It didn’t matter that his exile was self-imposed. That she’d meant for him to return with her as soon as they’d stepped foot into northern land. She wanted him home, and she would never stop trying. “Surely we’ve given enough time for the Crown to forgive.”

Sam remained silent, dutifully following at her side. His maester’s chains jostled with every step.

Sansa slowed. There were very few people in Winterfell she felt she could be entirely forthright with. Until recently, she had placed Sam in the neat and tidy category of statehood confidante and nothing more, but he’d proved himself an astute observer on many occasions as of late, and it would be folly to not seek out his opinion, especially on the subject of Jon Snow. 

“Go ahead,” she said, after a moment. Her shoulders relaxed. “Speak plainly, Sam.”

“I don’t disagree that you have an inherent right to all your northern subjects,” he said slowly, as if measuring and weighing every word, “but-- it’s not the southron Crown who may contest Jon’s pardon.”

“The Dothraki horde was all but slain, and the Targaryen loyalists have long set sail.”

Sam inclined his head. “The promise of peace was wrought on the condition of Jon’s exile. It would not take long for word to spread of his return to Winterfell.”

“And you worry those who fought for Daenerys Targaryen will rise again, if told.”

“Undoubtedly so.”

She came to a stop. This was her favorite view of Winterfell. It overlooked the inner courtyards and beyond the grey granite walls of the castle itself, to the Wolfswood; and on clearer days, the snow-capped mountains of the north. All was in her purview, her domain, and she’d never again let anyone else bring harm to her people. This she promised. But there was trouble brewing on the horizon. She could taste it on her tongue like the static metallic taste that gathered in the air before a storm.

“You’re not telling me the whole story,” she said. She’d known as much, from the moment Sam had sought her out on her morning rounds of the castle. He very rarely did. But what, exactly, he didn’t want to let on hadn’t become apparent until now. Some plot brewed, and he did not yet know how to tell her the worst of it. Mayhaps one day he would not edit the truth for her benefit and fire the arrow straight and quick. Until then, she’d have to dig for it. “Does Grey Worm build himself an army?”

“No, Your Grace.” His eyes dropped to his feet, his hands, but she saw the strength gathering in him, and when he raised his gaze next, it was with plain courage. “ _She_ does. Daenerys Targaryen lives.”

A tinny sound buzzed in Sansa’s ears.

Ramsay had hit her. A sharp fist in the stomach when she’d displeased him. The pain had been terrible, but the catch in her lungs had been worse. She remembered doubling over, rough stone biting into her knees and the heel of her palms; black dots and bright stars floating behind her eyelids; and, near the end, praying for the Stranger to give her deserved mercy.

Sam’s words left her breathless in much the same way. She leaned heavily on the crenelated walls before her, fighting against the heaving churn in her stomach. Bile rose. 

Moment by moment, the cold from the stone seeped into her; steadied her.

“Forgive me, Your Grace, for my--"

She shook her head; _no groveling, tell me true._

A long silence passed between them, but Sam continued on, eventually. "Arya sends word." A strip of a letter dangled between his fingers, pulled out from his billowing sleeves. “I didn’t recognize the seal or the handwriting-- I wouldn’t have read it--”

She reached out a trembling hand and took the correspondence. The paper crumbled between unsteady forefinger and thumb. It took her three deep, even lungfuls before her vision was clear enough to read. Her eyes skipped back and forth, comprehension battling the impossible words that lied therein, but Arya would not lie. Not about this. _Red Witches and a dragon reborn._ Her throat was dry, and her eyes burned. She would laugh if it weren't so, so terribly mirthless.

It didn’t matter if Jon were here, or beyond the Wall. No place would be safe for him if what Arya wrote was true. Daenerys would not rest until she saw him burn with her own two eyes. That much was certain.

What was even more certain was that the fool would let her do it without objection.

Her legs still quaked, but her back pulled straight. She had only one choice left to her. Better for it, as it was the only one her feet would wish to travel on.

She turned to Sam and saw he had the right of it, but she knew she would have to give the order regardless.

“Tell Harlan to ready my horse.” She would take Brienne with her, but no one else. “I will be riding north immediately.”

A sharp, icy wind rose up, carrying with it a flurry of old snow. She clasped her cloak tight around her shoulders, but she did not shiver. Worse cold awaited her yet.

**Author's Note:**

> the first short in this 'evergreen' series spawned this post-s8 fic idea, and so here we are.


End file.
